Sememmon came fully into the chamber, and such thoughts ceased. Vast and dark above him hung a beholder, its great central eye gazing down upon him maliciously. The acolyte had darted back behind Sememmon. He heard the door clang and the crash of a heavy bar falling into place. He was imprisoned. The eye tyrant was not Manxam. Sememmon cursed inwardly even as he strode forward, his cloak about him concealing nervous fingers that had gone straight to the hilt of a useless dagger.
The floor of the chamber was of highly polished marble. In the center of that vast, cold expanse rose a black throne- a throne that the High Imperceptor had not sat at the foot of for many a long year. It was gigantic, a seat for a giant, the seat of a god. It was occupied.
Red silk stood out against the black stone. Fzoul Chembryl lay asleep upon a bed across the seat of the god’s throne, recovering after the frantic healing efforts of the priests who served Bane under him. Sememmon gazed at him as he approached, uncomfortably aware without daring to look up that the beholder was moving with him, floating directly overhead with its great unblinking eye staring down.
The mage was no more than a dozen steps from the base of the throne, able to see clearly the rope ladder the priests were wont to ascend by, when a deep, rumbling voice from overhead said, “You have come to find death, Sememmon the Proud, but you have found not Fzoul’s death, but your own.” As Sememmon looked up and broke into a run, he saw the dark body of the beholder sinking lower and lower. The beholders were making their own bid for leadership of the Zhentarim.
Within a breath the beholder would be close enough to use the eye that dealt death or that turned one to stone. Or it might simply charm him into obedience or pursue him about the chamber like a trapped rat and wound him from afar. In the end, he knew, it would use the eye that destroyed one utterly, and there would not even be dust left of Sememmon.
So Sememmon ran as he had never run before, diving frantically around the edge of the throne where the vast central eye, the one that foiled all magic, could not see. He hastily began the casting of an incendiary cloud. He did not have the right spells for a fight this grave… Buy time and cover, then use a dimension door to teleport directly above the beholder, he told himself. Use paralyzation-or, no, use magic missiles now! Or… ah, gods spit upon it all! Raging, Sememmon applied himself to spellcasting.
He finished, and sprinted along the back of the throne, nearly tripping over a ringbolt on the floor that obviously was a trap-door-if one were very strong or had four or five acolytes to lift it. Sememmon reached the corner, gasping for breath, and steadied himself. To cast a magic missile spell, he must see the target-and if he could see the beholder, its eyes would also be able to see him. He tensed himself to take a rapid peek, and-
There was a flash and a roar, and the very floor heaved up, knocking Sememmon to his knees. Up, get up, he urged himself frantically. But there was a reddish haze of dancing spots before his eyes. He could not seem to grasp which way ‘up’ was.
“Well met, Sememmon,” said a dry, coldly familiar voice. Sememmon looked up into the calm gazes of Sarhthor and Manshoon. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep was robed in his usual black and dark blue, and he looked amused. “You can get up now,” he added. “It’s gone.” He flexed his open hand.
Sememmon found his voice. “You’ve returned! Lord, we have missed you, indeed-”
“Aye. No doubt. I’ve watched you and seen the, ah, troubles with Fzoul. Come, now, and slay him not. He is needed.” They hurried across the marble floor toward the door Sememmon had come in by. It was blasted and twisted into shards of metal beneath their feet. “Sarhthor,” Manshoon explained briefly.
The three mages went out through strangely deserted halls and sought the starlit night outside. Wordlessly they walked out of The Black Altar, past dim piles that had already begun to stink; the bodies of those who had fallen in the battle between Fzoul’s forces and those of The High Imperceptor. They walked straight to Sememmon’s abode, and the two mages left Sememmon there.
“Cheer up,” said Manshoon in parting. “You’ll have your chance to fight with the others for all this”-he shrugged his shoulders and looked around at the dark spires that rose all about them-”someday. I can’t live forever, you know.” With that he turned on his heel and was gone down the cobbled street into the night, Sarhthor at his heels.
Sememmon stared after them in the faint light and tasted fear. When would Manshoon feel that Sememmon had lived long enough? He entered hastily, the little eyeball that Manshoon had sent to spy floating in, unseen, with him, too.
“We just happened to be riding this way,” Rathan said gruffly. “It’s an open road, is it not?”
“No” Shandril said with a crooked smile. “You came after us to protect us. Did you not trust Tymora to look after us!”
The burly cleric grinned. “Of course Tymora watches over ye… Am I not an instrument of Tymora’s will?”
“Is that why you moved a sleeping man and left all the fighting and dirty work to me?” Torm said. “Not a copper’s worth of value in the pockets of his robe, too.”
“Dirty work, is it? Who took off his boots, I’d like to know!” Rathan teased him.
“I thank you both,” Narm said, “despite your feeble attempts at humor. Again my lady and I owe you our lives. And our horses’, too, it seems. Your spell even took away the pain in my head.”
Rathan grinned. “If ye want it back, I can lend thee Torm for a few breaths.” Torm favored him with a sour look.
Shandril giggled. “I don’t think that will be quite necessary, Rathan. I have a man to drive me beyond endurance, now.” Narm gave her a hurt look, to which she replied with a wink, but Torm looked delighted.
“Oh, you can leave him with Rathan, to learn how to ride and fight and worship and all,” he said, “and I’ll ride with you. I’m witty, agile, clean, quick, and experienced. I know lots of jokes, and I’m an excellent cook, so long as you’re partial to meat, tomatoes, cheese, and noodles all cooked together. I’m fully conversant with the laws of six kingdoms and many smaller, independent cities, and I’m an excellent gambler” He batted his eyelashes at her. “What do you say? Hmmm?”
Shandril gave him a look that would have melted glass. “Is there nothing you can do about him?” she asked Rathan.
“Oh, aye,” Rathan agreed. “Ye can give him first watch, so we can all get some sleep. Narm and I’ll sleep on either side, close against ye, and ye wont have to worry about him getting cold and wanting to snuggle up.”
“Ah, hah,” Shandril agreed dubiously. She rolled her eyes and flopped down into the bed of folded tent without replying. Rathan grunted and lowered himself slowly to a lying position, rolling his cloak up as a pillow. He lay on the grass fully clad, without bedding or blanket, grasping his mace. He nodded then, as if satisfied, and within a few breaths he was snoring. His booted feet twitched now and then.
Torm winked at Narm and reached out to pinch one of them. His fingers were still inches away from their goal when Rathan rolled open one eye and said, “Ye can forget pinching, stroking, and tickling honest folk-or even us- who’re asleep in the arms of the gods. Just see that the fire stays high.”
Narm fell asleep chuckling.
The soft morning sun breaking over the rolling hills and fields of Battledale and northern Sembia lit up the sky to the east, and found Rathan Thentraver thoughtfully warming water for tea over the dying fire.
He looked around at his sleeping companions, got to his feet with a slow grunt of effort, and clambered up the bank to look at the land about. It was bare of all but grass, rolling and very empty. He nodded in satisfaction, tucked his mace under his arm, and sat down again and cleared his thoughts of all but Tymora, as he tried to do every morning.